The Goon in Too Good to be True
by gros0278
Summary: While doing historical research for a comparative study on the legalization of prostitution vs. vice squads, I came across a cute account of women stealing men's hats to lure them into saloons. I felt this was very clever, and wondered how far The Goon would go to get his iconic hat back from one such nefarious femme fatale...


The Goon in, "Too Good to be True"

It's a painfully quiet day in the crust-bucket Goon calls home, even the dust is settled down. Alongside the road, tumbleweed sits undisturbed among just enough human waste to kill any sense of sentiment for peacefulness on the street. The Goon walks alone, only a little angry at Franky for being stuck indoors with the herpegonosyphilitis or some other such absurd calamity. The Goon don't bore easy, but damn.

Then, "AYYYYYEEEEE!" What's going on in the alley? Goon rolls up his sleeves, surprised to find himself in a full-on sprint to what must be a grizzly murder in progress. But alas, it's just those punk orphans playing kick the cat with Grandma's Bootsie again. Grandpa's got them by the ears before any harm's done.

Goon keeps on truckin'; kickin' cans or whatever it is a dust-bowl gangster-avenger-for-the-little-guy does when he's bored about town. Then, [From Norton's] "OH MY GOD!" Goon's pulse quickens. What's going on at Norton's?

[Inside Norton's] "Oh my god, you didn't... we can't afford this you sweet stupid bastard." Spider proposed to the hideous monster-matron of the harpee-burlesque. He's confident he can pay off the rock she's wearing. "Anything for his queen," he says. Norton's rolling his eyes, the collection of drunks are decidedly disinterested. One drunk's becoming physically ill at the wanton displays of affection. The Goon's overcome with some flu-like symptoms himself. Urrrggghhhh...

Anyway, there he is walking down the street, when all of a sudden the Goon spies a dilapidated saloon, a real dump. Goon thinks to hisself, "Never seen that before." He lets it go; walks on past. Then BAM! – Goon's iconic hat is stolen. The Goon turns to see a mostly naked, curvy, bodacious piece of tail running into the saloon with his hat. She's all-giggles as she masterly mounts the broken steps in her 8" heels.

Now this Saloon is a good knock on the door away from falling over. Something don't add up. Nobodies worked this place in a good long time. Well, the Goon ain't bout to be scared off by no suspicion of ghosts. He rolls up his sleeves and proceeds up the steps.

Inside it's super swank, awesome sexy fun times. Top notch entertainment all around. Décor that Baz Luhrmann would call over the top. [panel: among Décor an empty door – from which a speech bubble proclaims, "alright you naked harpee, ghoul, witch, 3-headed bitch, whatever it is you've gone and shape-shifted into gimme my hat back and we'll let you keep your jawbone covered up."] Goon's attitude changes when he sees the place. Pretty soon three fine, scantly dressed goddesses are caressing him. He ain't fallin' for no strange. "I just came for my hat," he says. "We don't sell hats," says the matron (the only one wearing slightly more than very little.) Forget it, replies the Goon. But as he turns to walk out, he sees tumbleweed undisturbed among just enough human waste to kill any sense of sentiment for peacefulness in the street. What the hell... what's the hurt in havin' a little strange...

Some time later... Goon emerges from the Saloon in his hat. He's looking back into the building waving shyly goodbye, while the ladies beg him to return. "Nice ladies," Goon thinks to himself.

When the Goon turns to look ahead. [Splash Page] The town has become complete pandemonium, The sky is filled with black clouds, the zombie priest has conjured a rain of blood, virtually every villain is getting into some kind of awfulness, slack-jaws are running the streets, and most everyone Goon ever considered a friendly is in some sort of life-threatening danger. "That's more like it!" The Goon rolls up his sleeves one more notch.

The End...


End file.
